


livery

by winnehild



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Drinking Contest, Gen, Retrospective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 16:19:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15710838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winnehild/pseuds/winnehild
Summary: a contest that he lost.





	livery

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first fic—I don't know what i'm doing tbh

 

* * *

“You,” Erhardt's rough shove pins young Olberic Eisenberg to his relatively small chair, “are sleeping under this here table tonight, my friend.”

 

“I think not,” his friend lifts his right brow, “as I have a considerable height and weight advantage over you, Erhardt.” Secretly, his gut warned him otherwise, but he'd be damned if he didn't rise to the challenge. Nonetheless, the logic in his words did give him some hope as Olberic was not only a good head's length taller than Erhardt (perhaps more), but he was also broader, thicker, by and large.

 

Erhardt barks more than laughs at his opponent, inwardly thrilling at the rare display of bravado. “We'll soon see who has the 'advantage' over whom, O Giant of the Highlands.” He taunts. “First is on me, then.” He heads for the counter and orders the first of many rounds to come.

* * *

 

Making directly for their favorite, less-crowded tavern after a long day of training, the pair of young men fell into step together, chatting about their day and progress compared to their peers.

 

“Oi, you hear about that new lad, Bronson?” The blond jabbed his elbow into the other's hip.

 

Olberic furrowed his thick brows and gently removed the extra elbow from his side.

 

“Fell asleep on his horse? At midday? Was removed from service?” Erhardt supplied.

 

“Ah,” the stoic man exhaled, “'tis a shame, too. I heard it was his birthday yesterday, and his friends kept refilling his mug when he wasn't looking.” He chuckled lowly—and immediately felt guilty for it.

 

“Couldn't handle his drink! Ha!” Erhardt jeered. “Serves him right, that does—what kind of man can't handle one night of drinking?” His voice crept higher, incredulous.

 

“Every man has his limits,” Olberic intoned gravely.

 

Erhardt scoffed.

 

“What's your limit then, Olberic? How much ale does it take until _you_ nod off like an old man in broad daylight?” He smirked and looked up at him expectantly.

 

A beat. Hard leather soles clapping the pavement and the faint sounds of mothers calling their children inside for supper.

 

“Come to think of it,” Erhardt's voice took a dangerous edge as both his words and his gait slowed. Olberic unconsciously tightened his middle as if anticipating a blow. “After all this time, I've never seen you put away more than two pints.” His eyes squinted and brows furrowed slightly while he pieced together everything he knew about his friend in his mind. “Surely, a man of your size could handle thrice that without a fuss,” he baited, visually sizing up the brunet.

 

“A future knight of Hornburg must not lose control of himself in a moment of drunken foolishness,” Olberic recited from his personal code of ethics.

 

“So you're saying you can't handle your drink either?” Erhardt prodded.

 

“I did not say that,” he countered stiffly.

 

“You said you wouldn't lose control by getting drunk. I _merely_ said you never have more than two pints,” Erhardt persisted. “You're all but admitting you'd get 'foolishly drunk' off of anything more than two mugs, Eisenberg.” He wasn't, but Erhardt knew what he was doing.

 

“No, I am _merely_ saying that I will not _attempt_ to approach my limit so as to not-” Olberic started, knowing full well he was fighting a losing battle against the stubborn ass smirking up at him.

 

“You know, Olberic,” Erhardt interjected, not unkindly. “Tomorrow is our day off. You will have no need of vigilance tonight,” he tantalized him with his words like a back alley merchant with illicit goods. “We are well-matched in combat, my friend, but I have yet to meet my equal in the cups.”

 

Olberic was inexplicably reminded of the tales he heard as a boy—of otherwordly sirens of the eastern shores luring men to their deaths armed only with their cunning minds and honeyed voices.

 

He _had_ been working himself very hard lately. Maybe it was time to loosen his belt—if only a little.

 

…

 

He was no fool, though. He had seen the smaller man drink many others under the table. He hadn't seen anyone get the better of him, though.

 

The other man always achieved what he set out to do.

 

“You may have my soft stockings from Grandma Julia if you win,” He offered shrewdly. Olberic had borrowed them when he was ill last winter; thereafter, he often thought of their plush comfort while pulling on his own scratchy stockings with a small frown dragging discreetly at the corners of his mouth. Erhardt thought it was hilarious.

 

“... Fine.” The sigh of the damned escaped Olberic's thin lips. “And what will you have if you win?” His world-weary voice inquired.

 

“A wheel of cheese from Gertrude and Karl's,” the instigator didn't take a moment to answer.

 

“... Very well,” Olberic agreed.

 

Erhardt grinned widely in self-satisfaction and quickened his stride toward the tavern.

* * *

 

The chair creaks and groans miserably as its occupant leans back daringly in languid contentment. Both are dangerously close to their breaking points, but neither are aware of it. Olberic tips his mug back and takes long, deep dregs from it until empty. His Adam's apple and corded muscle ripple visibly with each gulp. He then abruptly sits forward and belches alarmingly.

 

Erhardt delicately sets down his own empty mug and wipes his mouth, proving a point. “Yeh forfeit if y'fall out o' your chair,” he blurts out rapidly, then leans deeply between his elbows on the table and levels his gaze, “Olbrick,” the warning demands his attention.

 

“Olbrick. Brick Berg, hehehe,” the flushed man now sits forward tucks his chin to his chest, and hysterical tremors seize his body.

 

“I'm serious, y'ugly fool,” Erhardt scowls at him.

 

“Hehehe, aye, you look, _hic!_ Hehe. You look _serious_ ,” Olberic isn't breathing enough between his hiccups and his uncontrollable giggling. His face is turning puce.

 

Erhardt cocks his head to the side.

 

“Y'alright, then? Yeh look like a _plum_ , ha ha.” The blond gets up from his chair (slowly) and walks over to the vibrating man opposite him. He puts his hand on the other's left shoulder (to steady himself as well as provide some comfort): “I _think_ ,” a pause to gather his thoughts, “you've had enough, my friend,” he determines, and pats his shoulder arrhythmically.

 

Olberic leans inelegantly into the touch, and then suddenly, he is on the ground. The chair's legs snap off and are violently thrown to the side in apparent slow motion. Erhardt looks back and forth between the two floor dwellers in mild confusion before focusing on his fallen comrade.

 

“Ohhhh,” he grinds out softly, resting his angry skin on the cool wood while the room rocks from side to side, side to side.

 

“I'm mighty surprised at you, Mr. Olberic,” the tavern owner, Ronan, looks down at him with his hands on his hips, “I'd've wagered _you_ the winner,” he remarks disappointedly. The barmaid, Priscilla, smirks slightly but doesn't look up from her book in the corner.

 

Erhardt laughs heartily—then a traitorous “ _hic_ ” slips out.

 

“Hehehe,” comments Olberic as he sits up on the floor and looks at him.

 

Erhardt exhales loudly and extends his arm toward him, and Olberic mirrors him.

 

“You lads need some food,”

 

“I'm going to have some _very fine cheese_ ,” Erhardt proudly states, arm in arm with an unstable anchor, “as a matter of fact.”

 

This remark is, apparently, the cure to Olberic's hysteria.

* * *

 

Late the next evening, Erhardt makes a show of slowly, gently, peeling off his downy-soft stockings—given him one day by the kind old woman with bright eyes who would subtly promote her granddaughter to him every week at the market—and balls them together carefully before dropping them into the washing bag.

 

“Gloating doesn't become you,” a chiding voice resounds from the other side of the small, dimly lit room.

 

“Does _giggling_ become _you_ , then?” he retorts in an instant with a smile in his voice, glancing at him over his shoulder.

 

“... I'll best you one day, Erhardt,” Olberic fixates on the loose stone in the wall and buttons up his long nightshirt. “I must,” he adds to himself, silently, and pushes the stone back into place with conviction.

 

“We'll just see about that,” Erhardt chuckles darkly, brushing his fringe over his eyes and measuring it between his fingers on the edge of his bed.

 

Olberic makes a noncommital sound in the back of his throat. He combs his short black hair backward, wishing that he had been able to see the barber that day.

 

“I can give you a trim, you know,” Erhardt offers, now untangling a knot carefully with his fingers. “I've always done my own hair, and you haven't nearly as much to do as I—shouldn't be any trouble.”

 

Olberic still has that habit of thinking aloud, it seems. “I didn't realize,” he begins wickedly, “that your hair had ever been cut before.”

 

Erhardt lets out a startled laugh, not expecting a quip from him. “... I'll have you know it's too _fluffy_ when it's short; I have my mother's hair.” He added, pulling the brush carefully through: from root to tip, root to tip.

 

“Does it not get in the way during battle? I cannot imagine having so much hair in my eyes all day,” Olberic wonders, rolling his shoulders and stretching his arms behind his back.

 

Erhardt pulls it through once more and then puts his hairbrush back in his chest of drawers. “It's only a problem when my fringe gets too long; _hence_ ,” he both says and looks pointedly at him, “why I _cut it_.”

 

“Haha. Understood,” Olberic resigns and crawls into his small bed, bending his legs in toward his body in order to fit. He leans over to blow out the candle on his nightstand. “I'd be grateful if you could give me a trim tomorrow, then,” he calls out placidly as he commits his half of the room to darkness.

 

Erhardt pauses in braiding his hair. He looks across the room at the dark shape: “Aye, before breakfast, eh?”

 

“Thank you. I'm afraid I've spent my last on fine cheese,” he replies with a very subtly rueful inflection.

 

Erhardt chuckles softly. “No charge. Goodnight, Olberic,” he offers, some of his fine strands slipping out of their place.

 

“Goodnight, my friend,” the other meets, curled in on himself in the dark.

 

Erhardt undoes his progress and starts over.

 

 

 


End file.
